Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

Disbelieving gasps were followed by roars of fury, and the launch rocked as men scrambled to their feet in rage. "We'll scrag the fucker! Get 'im!" Poulden fingered the swivel nervously: if they boarded he would no longer have a clear field of fire.

"Stand down, y' mewling lubbers!" Kydd roared. "Poulden! No one allowed t' board the Frenchy." He spotted Soulter, the quartermaster, sitting on the small transverse windlass forward. "Soulter, that's your division forrard," he said loudly, encompassing half the men with a wave. "You're responsible t' me they're in good fightin' order, not bitchin' like a parcel of old women."

"Sir?" The dark-featured Laffin levered himself above the level of the thwarts from the bottom boards where he had been treated for a neck wound.

"Thank 'ee, Laffin," Kydd said, trying to hide his gratitude. If it came to an ugly situation the boatswain's mate would prove invaluable.

"We'll square away now, I believe. All useless lumber over the side, wounded t' Mr Pybus." Smashed oars, splintered gratings and other bits splashed into the water.

"Dead men, sir?" There was a tremor in Rawson's voice.

Kydd's face went tight. "We're still at quarters. They go over." If they met another hostile boat, corpses would impede the struggle.

After a pause, the first man slithered over the side in a dull splash. His still body drifted silently away. It was the British way in the heat of battle: the French always kept the bodies aboard in the ballast shingle. Another followed; the floating corpse stayed with them and did not help Kydd to concentrate on a way out of their danger. The fog swirled pitilessly around them.

"Is there any been on th' Grand Banks before?" Kydd called, keeping his desperation hidden.

There was a sullen stirring in the boat and mutterings about an officer's helplessness in a situation, but one man rose. "I bin in the cod fishery once," he said defensively. Kydd noted the absence of "sir."

"Report, if y' please." The man scrambled over the thwarts. "This fog. How long does it last?"

The man shrugged. "Hours, days—weeks mebbe." No use, then, in waiting it out. "Gets a bit less after dark, but don't yez count on it," he added.

"What depth o' water have we got hereabouts?" It might be possible to cobble together a hand lead for sounding, or to get information on the sea-bed. He vaguely remembered seeing on the chart that grey sand with black flecks turned more brown with white pebbles closer to the Newfoundland coast.

"Ah, depends where we is—fifty, hunnerd fathoms, who knows ?"

There was nowhere near that amount of line to be found in the boat. Kydd could feel the situation closing in on him. "Er, do you ever get t' see th' sun?"

"No. Never do—like this all th' time." The man leaned back, regarding Kydd dispassionately. It was not his problem. "Y' c'n see the moon sometimes in th' night," he offered cynically.

The moon was never used for navigation, to Kydd's knowledge, and in any case he had no tables. There was no avoiding the stark fact that they were lost. There were now only two choices left: to drift and wait, or stake all on rowing in a random direction. The penalty on either was a cold and lengthy death.

"We got oars, we get out o' this," muttered one sailor to stroke oar. There were sufficient undamaged oars to row four a side, more than needed; but the comment crystallised Kydd's thinking.

"Hold y'r gabble," Kydd snapped. "We wait." He wasn't prepared to explain his reasons, but at the very least waiting would buy time.

The fog took on a dimmer cast: dusk must be drawing in. Now they had no option but to wait out the night. Danger would come when the cold worked with the damp of the fog and it became unendurable simply to sit there.

In the chaloupe the French sat tensely, exchanging staccato bursts of jabber—were they plotting to rise in the night? And now in the launch his men were talking among themselves, low and urgent.

He could order silence but as the dark set in it would be unenforceable. And it might cross their minds to wait until it was fully dark, then fall upon Kydd and the others, claiming they had been killed in the fight. The choices available to Kydd were narrowing to nothing. He gripped the tiller, his glare challenging others.

For some reason the weight of his pocket watch took his notice. He'd bought it in Falmouth, taken by the watchmaker's claims of accuracy, which had been largely confirmed by the voyage so far. He took it out, squinting in the fading dusk light. Nearly seven by last local noon. As he put it back he saw derisive looks, openly mocking now.

Night was stealing in—the fog diffused all light and dimmed it, accelerating the transition, and soon they sat in rapidly increasing darkness.

"All's well!" Laffin hailed loyally.

"Poulden?" Kydd called.

"Sir." The man was fast becoming indistinct in the dimness.

As if to pour on the irony the dull silver glow of a half-moon became distinguishable as the fog thinned a little upward towards the night sky. If only . . .

Then two facts edged from his unconscious meshed together in one tenuous idea, so fragile he was almost afraid to pursue it. But it was a chance. Feverishly he reviewed his reasoning—yes, it might be possible. "Rawson," he hissed. "Listen to this. See if you c'n see a fault in m' reckoning."

There was discussion of southing, meridians and "the day of her age" and even some awkward arithmetic—but the lost seamen heard voices grow animated with hope. Finally Kydd stood exultant. "Out oars! We're on our way back, lads."

They broke free of the fogbank to find the convoy still becalmed, and away over the moonlit sea the silhouette of a 64-gun ship-of-the-line that could only be Tenacious.

A mystified officer-of-the-watch saw two man-o'-war boats hook on as the missing Kydd came aboard. At the noise, the captain came out on deck. "God bless my soul!" Houghton said, taking in Kydd's wounds and empty sword scabbard.

"Brush with th' enemy, sir," Kydd said, as calmly as he could. "Compass knocked t' flinders, had to find some other way back."

"In fog, and at night? I'd be interested to learn what you did, Mr Kydd."

"Caused us quite some puzzling, sir, but I'll stake m' life that Mr Rawson here would be very pleased to explain th' reasoning."

Rawson started, then said smugly, "Oh, well, sir, we all knows that f'r any given line o' longitude—the meridian, I mean—the moon will cross just forty-nine minutes after the sun does, and falls back this time for every day. After that it's easy."

"Get on with it, then."

"Well, sir, we can find the moon's southing on any day by taking the day of her age since new, and multiplying this by that forty-nine. If we then divide by sixty we get our answer—the time in hours an' minutes after noon when she's dead in the south, which for us was close t' eight o' clock. Then we just picked up our course again near enough and—"

Houghton grunted. "It's as well Mr Kydd had such a fine navigator with him. You shall take one of my best clarets to the midshipmen's berth." Unexpectedly, the captain smiled. "While Mr Kydd entertains me in my cabin with his account of this rencontre ."

Chapter 5

THE NEWFOUNDLAND CONVOY was now safely handed over off St John's, along with Viper and Trompeuse, the ship signalling distress in the fog missing, presumed lost. Tenacious hauled her wind to sail south alone to land her French prisoners and join the fleet of the North American station in Halifax.

As they approached there was a marked drop in temperature; chunks of broken ice were riding the deep Atlantic green of the sea and there was a bitter edge to the wind. Thick watch-coats, able to preserve an inner retreat of warmth in the raw blasts of an English winter, seemed insubstantial.